Spirit of Fire
by Suki
Summary: There once was an Elf whose spirit was so fierce that none could tame him - save one. [A detailed retelling of the tale of Fëanor; canon.]
1. I

**I**

* * *

In a garden the lady lay sleeping. Silver willows bent over her still form, entwining a canopy of translucently shifting green and yellow above her. Both the Garden and the lady were beautiful beyond measure. Her hair was earth-dark, and her skin was ivory, but she was still . . . so still. Now it could be seen that the flowers and ivy grew up from the ground and entangled lovingly in her hair and garments. The heart-shaped leaves embraced her, as if bidding her to wake, but still she lay, perfect and un-stirring. The soft features of her face were touched with tranquility, but it seemed forced, and no breath of air from her lips troubled the glistening dew that settled new upon her each morning. She was flawless. She was immobile. She was as unreal as a marble statue. She was dead.

He awoke with a start, sweat scattering in a soft rain from his brow. The dream was always the same. Once, only once had he gone to see his mother in the garden and had never returned. Yet the image of her haunted him.

Warm light met his clammy skin, kissing the dream away with the morning. A light breeze stirred the warm air, and it surrounded him in a flowing blanket. He pushed away the silky blue covers, which spilled off the bed like cool water and pooled onto the marbled floor. The room was exquisitely furnished, with intricately carved wooden furniture, and yards of flowing fabrics hung from the high-vaulted ceiling. The breeze moved freely throughout, for two of the four walls of the room were nonexistent. Alabaster columns stood sentinel here like white guardians. Gemstones brought forth coaxingly out of the earth by skilled Noldor adorned the walls' trimming. Birdsong and the chanting of the wind met his ears. The light of Laurelin, the Younger Tree, was just beginning to wax. In the East, the stars hung, bright as gems, illuminating the distant Sea.

He moved to the white columns and leaned there for a moment, letting the breeze caress his bare skin and wash away all memory of nightmare. From a distance, down below (for the wide branches of trees outside his room betrayed his height) he viewed people already moving here and there in the hill-city of Tirion. They went as shadows among the white towers and crystal stairs of Túna, clad in pale, shining colors and making barely a sound but for the softness of their speech, and, here and there, one solitary song. He strained his ears, but the particular singer he had been listening to was now too far away, and he could not make out the words, though the hymn seemed familiar.

The subtlest of rustles behind him in the room betrayed his father's entrance.

"_Fëanáro_."

He turned slowly at the sound of the name. It was the name his mother gave him.

The lord was tall and regal, with robes of deep emerald and shimmering threads, yet nothing he wore could conceal his masculinity. His shoulders were broad for his kind, and his jaw was stern. The long, dark hair fell over his shoulders and was crowned by a simple halo of pale leaves. No circlet of silver and jewels could have flattered him more. He was fair and wise, and only the shining eyes revealed his long count of years within Arda, for he was among the first. Yet a shadow ever dwelt behind the light. His name was Finwë.

The two faced each other, and but for a slight difference in stature, they were nearly identical in face and feature, though the elder was by far the more grand.

The lord spoke softly. "_Fëanáro_, come and see your new brother who was born yester-eve."

Fëanor turned back and resumed his observance of the shifting morning light.

His father, moving as the air without a sound, stood suddenly next to him, and gazed out on the early hours of his fair city. "His mother was long in labor, but he came forth at last, and lo! he has golden hair as of the Vanyar!"

When his son's eyes did not shift and his limbs remained still, the king added, "I name him Finarfin . . . _Fëanáro_, come and see him."

Now, without glancing at him or changing his demeanor, the young one spoke: "I brought her death, did I not? It was I who killed her."

The king's face became troubled. "Don't, _Fëanáro_; not now."

"How is it that she can bear you two healthy sons, and yet my mother was dead with fatigue as soon as I was free from her?"

Finwë touched his eldest's shoulder lightly in sympathy. "Not even the Valar can know completely the mind of the One, my son."

"I would that I would have known her."

"As do I."

Fëanor turned clear, fierce eyes to his father. They shone intensely with a fire that was all his own; for neither parent had possessed it. "If she had lived to see my fruition, I could have saved her. Nay, Father, do not doubt me. All know that I possess the knowledge of many ways and am learning still, and once I bend my mind to a task there is no one that can rival me in Eldamar nor any work of Arda that can hinder me." Then his voice quieted, and the fire dimmed, and the sadness set in to balance the tempers. "I dream of her sometimes."

"You fear I have forgotten her?" When there was no response, Finwë said, "Nay, I have not forgotten her, nor ever will – least of all with you here always to remind me! Ah," here he touched the smooth ebony strands, tousled from sleep, "you are so like her in many ways – and so strong in spirit." His eyes misted. He was no longer looking at his son but away into the distant past, some time long, long ago. "She said that in bearing you, the very fire of your spirit consumed her in body and soul. I have often wondered if she did not bequeath a part of herself to you then . . . that her very life left her for you when you two were separated."

Fëanor knew full well that the strength which could have nourished many went into his sole making. "So it _was_ I who killed her."

"_Lau, Fëanáro!_ Her sacrifice was one of love. She would have had it no other way, and you are her spirit-child, in more than a manner of speaking."

Fëanor wondered in his mind, if he were so great a treasure, how his father would come to need any more sons. But he did not speak this aloud.

Finwë embraced his son and kissed his brow vigorously. "Come. The gentle Indis awaits you. She would that you would pay honor to your littlest brother."

So Fëanor dressed and passed through gilded halls to his father's wife as she was resting. He greeted her formally and kissed her in respect as she deserved. The cradle, in the corner where the light could envelope it, was of the things which live in the earth, for Quendi love from the beginning all things that grow. On the bow was carved a prayer of thanksgiving and protection to Yavanna, the wife of Aulë whom the Noldor love. The child slept soundly in the gold, milky Tree-light, wisps of golden curls resting on his tiny head.

Fëanor knelt and looked in at him, as the breeze moved his hair in currents about his finely-featured face. His bright gray-blue eyes gazed scrutinizingly at the fair infant. Fëanor felt a subtle movement at his side, and a dark-haired child, with large, wide eyes nudged against him, shyly curling his small fingers about his elder brother's forearm. For their kind, both little ones were round and childish looking, though in the eyes of another race, they would have appeared too tall and slim to be healthy. Fingolfin fingered the fabric of Fëanor's linen garment. The eldest prince stiffened but allowed the boy this sign of affection.

Fëanor listened to the murmured voices of his father and his brothers' mother for some time, bent quietly over the baby's cradle. When the two were together, he would rather they forget him. Fingolfin reached a timid hand into the cradle and lightly stroked the baby's cheek, then abruptly pulled back.

"He's soft," he remarked bewilderedly to his half-brother.

"They come that way," Fëanor replied curtly.

The child was un-perplexed. "I'll be a good elder brother," he confided. "I'll show him the trees and the birds and the flowers – all _Olvar_ and _Kelvar_. And _Mamil_ said I could hold him a bit when he is presented to Manwë." The boy nodded slightly, as was the custom, in reverence to the High Ruler. Then, as if noticing for the first time, "Finarfin, _findesselya vanya!_ _Fëanáro_, his hair shimmers as Laurelin, just like _Mamil_'s does. I think it's lovely, don't you?"

"It is not so wonderful." The response sounded harsh, and Fëanor flinched imperceptibly as it echoed maddeningly in his ears.

Fingolfin's large eyes grew even wider. He knew from the tone of his brother's voice that he had done something wrong, but he did not know what. Presently, the child's hesitation faded, and he resumed his light hold on Fëanor's arm and leaned into him, resting his left thumb and forefinger absently on his mouth, dreaming innocently of the things he would show his younger brother.

The voices continued to murmur a gentle lullaby to compliment the hum of the early morning. Fëanor touched the dark head hesitantly, as one overcoming his initial repulsion. Fingolfin did not appear troubled by Fëanor's uncommon action, so his brother went on silently, tenderly stroking the raven hair.

* * *

_A/N: "This is a story of long ago . . . ." It is a tale of the Eldar in Valinor, taking place centuries and centuries before _The Lord of the Rings_. I welcome help from those more learned in Middle-earth lore than I am. _

_Also, please excuse my bad Elvish. It is very hard to get your hands on decent Quenya. Therefore, _Mamil_is Quenya for "mother" (or thereabouts). I also welcome help from linguists. ;) _


	2. II

**II**

* * *

They weaved through the silver bowls of tress down the sloping hill as Laurelin was reaching her height of luminosity. Every now and then, they would emerge from a copse and come to bare, mossy rock where they could see the crashing waves of the sea below, then the trees would thicken again. The dwellings in Tirion seemed to be built into the very hill of Tuná, and were of such stuff that they could have grown right up from the earth: houses of stone and leaves and wood blended so well into the landscape that to the unskilled eye, their presence could not be noticed until one was nearly upon them. 

Fingolfin and Finarfin trotted merrily after him, sometimes darting off to observe a budding sapling or a butterfly, then running to catch up to Fëanor's longer strides, all the while making no sound or such sound that only an insect could hear. Though every now and again, the young ones' hushed voices would rise like a soft wave to discuss the significance of this or that flower. As they walked, the soft light of the Tree dimmed. The shadows of the trees grew longer. They were entering the eternal twilight at the east of the city.

As they emerged from some trees onto a small cliff, Finarfin stopped and turned to his brothers, tugging at his fair hair excitedly. "Ah, look! The ocean is singing! _Fëanáro_, won't you take us to Sea?" When Fëanor turned in a swift movement to look at him with furrowed eyebrows, he added, "But for a moment?"

Fëanor did not slow his pace. "Don't speak nonsense! I told the two of you that I was going to Mahtan's forge – and nowhere else – and yet you still insisted on coming. If you must go to the Sea, go on your own."

"_Mamil _says we aren't to go by ourselves," Finarfin objected.

They reentered the trees and the glint of starlight reflecting off of the waves was lost to them once more.

"It's no use trying to convince him," Fingolfin wisely advised his little brother. "He's always cross when he's to the forge."

"Why is that?"

Fingolfin smiled knowingly. "Because Mahtan's daughter is _Fëanáro_'s rival, and she is just as skilled as he. They say she is as strong in spirit in her own quiet way, though never as forceful; nor does she fear him . It always puts him at ill."

Fëanor abruptly turned on his heel. The movement was so quick and unexpected that Fingolfin nearly ran into him, scattering light and fallen leaves on the ground. His elder brother bent slightly so their faces were level.

"Do not presume," came his low, threatening voice, "to know my mind, Fingolfin."

The middle child grew silent and turned his eyes downward, for all knew better than to irk the son of Míriel. And Fingolfin, especially, was wary of that voice – the one that was full of something dangerous, trembling always with something only just retained and threatening to escape.

Then Fëanor moved away, his mood changing as smoothly as the surface of a lake after a storm. Fingolfin stood watching after him for a while, and Finarfin glanced at him curiously as he passed him, hurrying his pace to catch up to Fëanor. Then he followed also.

* * *

"Ah, Curufinwë!" the mighty Noldo greeted him with his arms wide. "And my two young princes! _Elen síla lumenn' omentielvo_! You are welcome as always!" Mahtan motioned gracefully with his arms, a tall willow bowing to the breeze. Of all the Noldor in thier father's kingdom, Mahtan was the most jovial and good-humored.

Fëanor and Mahtan turned into the house, conversing among themselves, and the young ones hung back, taking in his dwelling with large, shining eyes. The forge opened up before them like a large stone cavern, and the ringing sound of fire and billows, and hammer and anvil echoed throughout. The heat from the forges would have been unbearable had there not been large vaulted openings that let the light and air flow in. Here, the light of Trees was faint, and the luminosity of Varda's stars cast an eerie silver-blue into the eastern rooms.

"Your stones are a marvel, Curufinwë," Mahtan spoke in confidential tones, weaving in and out among the tools and workers of his forge. Both he and Fëanor wore no robes, but light, well-fitting garments, fit for work over the anvil. "I have not shown them to anyone, as they are not finished. Yet already they mesmerize me with their rare beauty. Such work, it seems to me, is of the skill of the Valar! Aulë himself, when he taught me his skill, could not have done better. How come you by such ability? Not even my mentoring could have derived such treasures."

"I know not how I come by such skill," Fëanor answered, face emotionless. "I know only that I pour my soul into that which I make, and I find no content unless my mind is contriving always newer and better designs."

"Curufinwë," Mahtan stopped and faced him soberly. "You have a great gift, but you must not always be worrying and planning. Your creations are superb, and none can rival them. But rest is just as valuable."

Fëanor sighed and looked past the strong-jawed Noldo, refusing to meet his gaze. "You sound like my father." Slowly, he let his eyes wander back into Mantan's. "There is no rest for me."

The wise Mahtan put his arm around the son of Finwë, and they walked slowly, without purpose or drive. "I know you ever grieve for your lady mother, my friend. This fire in you – it is not dangerous in itself. But if you let it go unchecked, it will consume you as it did her."

For a moment, Fëanor felt like collapsing into him, like weeping for his mother and asking why he must be born with this restlessness in his soul – this fire always burning. He felt like cursing Idril and demanding that his two little brothers be disowned – that Finwë come to his senses and realize that he, the only son of Míriel, should be the sole beloved of his great father. He wanted to tell Mahtan all the things he had never had the courage or audacity to say to his father. But he withheld this childish outburst, and the feelings soon passed as they always did. No, he thought forebodingly, it would be a blessing to be consumed. Instead, he was cursed to burn and burn, always to burn and never find rest.

He smiled faintly, fakely, "You are right, Mahtan."

The great Noldo smiled, appeased, and dropped his arm. They quickened their pace. "Good. Come. We will retrieve these stones of yours. With your permission, I would like to set them out under the starlight and see again how they drink from the light of fair Varda."

Fëanor turned to account for his half-brothers. He saw that they halted a ways back, shyly watching the work of one of Aul's smiths, Fingolfin somberly answering Finarfin's eager questions, innocently feigning knowledge.

"Brothers!" Fëanor called irritably. But they could not hear him over the pounding of the worker's hammer. "If you would fetch my jewels, Mantan, while I fetch my brothers."

Mahtan agreed good-naturedly and nodded a slight bow, then departed.

Fëanor made his way to the two young Noldor. As he came closer, he heard Finarfin ask in a high, childish voice, "But what is it _for_, Fingolfin?"

When Fingolfin did not answer, Fëanor knew that he must be wearing that perplexed look, as he strained to find an answer to a question he did not know.

"It's a sword," Fëanor said, approaching from behind. Fingolfin and Finarfin gazed at him over their shoulders. "And it's used to protect oneself."

"Protection from what?" Finarfin asked with wide eyes. Fëanor surprised himself by the bitterness with which he noted Finarfin's locks: the red firelight caused them to glint like gold.

"From enemies."

"What's an enemy?"

"One who means you harm in some way."

Both boys pondered on this for half a minute, then Finarfin asked aloud what both were thinking, "I don't understand."

The smith paused a moment from his labor to wipe the sweat from his brow. He was red and heated from working over the fire, but the beauty inherent to his kin was unaffected. He picked up his hammer and resumed his work eagerly.

Fëanor gazed away east for some time, to the ocean and the unchanging starlight. Presently, he responded, "A long time ago, the Valar had an Enemy who marred the surface of Arda, way beyond the Sea. He wished harm upon the Quendi when we were yet young and knew not the Blessed Realm. He was not entirely unsuccessful in his endeavors. Though, now he serves penance in the halls of Mandos, and we seldom hear of him."

The youths were silent a while, contemplating their new-found knowledge, but still not quite understanding. For, in their world of perfect bliss unmarred, they could not fully comprehend the nature of such an evil.

"Why do you trouble them with such burdensome stories?" a gentle, refreshing voice questioned them. A lady drew near and placed a comforting hand on each boy's shoulder. She had a genuine smile. Her hair was warm and the color of copper alight with fire. She was dressed strangely, in clothes nearly masculine, and her hair was bound away, out of her face. Although this did not disguise her obvious femininity, there was yet a quality about her that was not inherently female. Perhaps it was the lack of care that she gave to her appearance, or maybe it was simply seeing her in a place where one would least expect to find a lady.

"I will take your advice, lady," Fëanor replied touchily, without hesitation, "on the day you lay down your hammer for a sewing needle."

Finarfin and Fingolfin observed the meeting eagerly with upturned faces.

The lady's smile did not visibly falter, but somehow, imperceptibly, it lessened in quality. "Not all are as skilled as your lady mother, may Eru keep her, and those of us who are not will be useful where we can," she answered solemnly.

Fëanor narrowed his eyes slightly, though his response was not cruel, "You ought to find yourself a husband, Nerdanel. This forge is no place for you."

She laughed, and the sound of it seemed to annoy him. "No place for me! Why, this is my father's forge! I would no sooner be at discomfort here than in my mother's womb. And anyway, Curufinwë, I cannot marry, for I am waiting for you to take me and will have no other!" This last part was obviously in jest. But why then, Fingolfin wondered, did it seem to sound sad?

Fëanor smirked unkindly.

The golden-haired child tugged timidly on Nerdanel's garment. The elf-maiden tilted her heart-shaped face to look benevolently down on him.

"I will marry you, Lady Nerdanel," he murmured, so softly as to be nearly inaudible.

She laughed kindly, the sound of minute bells tinkling. "_Tancave_, Finarfin; perhaps when you are older." And she swept her lips lightly over his brow in a maternal sort of affection.

Fëanor frowned ever so faintly. Though whether to Finarfin's or Nerdanel's words, he did not know.

"There you are, my lads!" the deep voice of Mahtan interrupted their conversation. He greeted the lady Nerdanel with a warm embrace. "My daughter, come and see. I have brought with me the unfinished work of Prince Curufinwë. Those skilled with their hands and eager in the pursuit of wisdom such as you can truly appreciate the beauty of these gems." He produced from a velvet pouch two colorless gemstones, exquisitely cut and finely crafted.

The party followed him as he left the heat of the forge and stepped into the cool starlight under the shadows of the trees. The leaves danced in the ocean wind, casting alternating patterns of light and shadow onto the soft blades of grass. Sweet scents rose to meet them where their feet crushed the slender blades. Here, Mahtan set the gems down on top of the pouch and stood back, letting the stones drink in the starlight and magnify them brilliantly. Fingolfin and Finarfin gaped in wonder. They had never before seen such handiwork made from the hands of the children of Illúvitar, and were awed that these marvels were the labor of their own brother. They fell into a respectful silence.

Only Nerdanel spoke, not taking her eyes from the radiant lights that had once been clear jewels. "Curufinwë," she breathed humbly, "you have outdone yourself yet again."

When he did not reply, she glanced at him, only to find him staring harshly at his heart's labor with that familiar discontent and trouble in his pale eyes.


	3. III

**III**

* * *

When the colorless jewels were completed, Fëanor hid them away, for he could not stand the sight of his imperfection, though no flaw in them could be found to others' eyes. Once, when Mahtan questioned him about them, Fëanor's eyes filled with such restless, piercing flame that he dismissed his inquiry and thought not of them again; for he guessed the prince's ailment.

For a long while after his labor, the prince's hands were still, and the people around him were at peace. But his mind was never still, and it turned with devices and plans, ever-changing and evolving. Another project was conceived. And Fëanor's hands were idle no more.

He perceived his plans in his sleep, and in waking, his thought was ever bent on them. It started as an aloofness. He spent less time in the company of others, and stayed often in his room, or else wandered in solitude through the un-populated places of Túna. When he could find no solitary place to satisfy him, he might even go to the shore and wander as far as he could in the sand, heedless of the chanting waves, before Telperion waxed. At last, when his thought was full-formed, he took to the forge and began his labor.

From tree-dawn he rose and made to the forge where he spent long hours, returning only when Telperion bloomed his fullest. Then he would make home to eat and sleep a bit before rising the new day and beginning again his toil.

This happened for many months, and though Finwë could see his son's feverish possession, even he was not free of the solemn respect and mild trepidation of his fiery spirit. He made mention to him twice or thrice, beseeching his dark-haired heir to rest a while from his project and spend time at ease with his family. And Fëanor did not deny him: each time he would lay down his tools for a day or so and linger in the presence of his father. But all could see that his mind was not there but away into the forge with his work and his fire. He took no joy in the mirth of the court nor the beauty of the gardens but was dull and listless, and his speech was vacant. In the end, Finwë released him from his service, and Fëanor at once would make to the forge.

At last, a time came when Fëanor rested not but haunted Mahtan's forge, an elvish wraith. For a time, he neither slept nor ate but poured his life flame into his creation.

Silently throughout, Nerdanel watched and took notice. In the days of his life-giving, she brought him nourishment, though he seemed not to notice, and she wearied not of keeping him ever under watchful eye. For she alone, when he was fierce with bent mind and will, had the courage to approach him, and she feared not his wild eyes or else refused to be intimidated by their living fire.

One evening, when all was quiet and dim in the great chambers of Mahtan's forge, she came to him, bringing a silver, jeweled cup filled with wine. It was late, and she had woken from troubled sleep. It was becoming common, these midnight excursions to monitor Curufinwë's welfare. She hung back behind a column and watched him for some minutes, working over intricate details: smoothing, sanding, pouring, and then, dissatisfied, throwing the glowing thing back into the forge-fire to begin forming it again. He bent over the object like a thing possessed, and he might have been beautiful, with his inky locks, shinning eyes, flushed cheeks, and subtle muscles undulating smoothly underneath pale skin, but for the intensity of his movements. If he marked her presence, he did not acknowledge it. Sucking in her breath through moist, parted lips, she approached him, cautiously but steadily.

"Curufinwë . . ."

He glanced only momentarily before returning his concentration to the task before him.

Gingerly, she set the silvery cup on a spruce stool next him. Then gathering her silver-blue cloak about her, she moved into his field of vision so that he must look at her.

"You should go home and rest."

There was no answer.

She sighed and turned her head, craning her neck gracefully as a swan's. The stars held her attention. She could not say the time that passed as they stood there, together but apart.

* * *

The small, large-eyed child drank in the sight. Apparently, he had not much seen maiden's things, and Nerdanel's chamber must have been a wonder and a mystery. It was decorated, like most bedchambers, with silk drapes, and intricate tapestries, and finely carved furniture. But she also had the tools of skill to which elf-lads seldom were exposed. Having all brothers, it was no surprise that this one found it fascinating.

"My Lord Finarfin," she curtsied thoughtfully, benignly amused. "To what do I pay the honor of this visit?"

The boy snapped his eyes away from the neglected spinning wheel and thought for a moment, seemingly reevaluating his reasons for coming. Her warm smile put him at ease, and he quickly regained his train of thought. "It's _Feanáro_," he said, expressive blue eyes and gentle earnestness betraying his worry.

Nerdanel's smile immediately faltered, but she courageously salvaged what she could from it, nodding supportively for Finarfin to continue.

But instead of speaking right away, the small prince's eyes swam and trembled, and his little, pointed face twisted sorrowfully. Before she knew what was happening, Finarfin had thrown himself into her skirts, burying his face and weeping.

"He's become so cruel to me, Nerdanel, crueler than usual, and I know it's because he goes to the forge every day now and never has any time for us at home! There's something keeping him there, I just know it! Something like, like – an _emeny_! Only he doesn't know any better, and he can't protect himself from it, so I –" he paused to draw in a long, shaky breath.

Nerdanel rested her hand comfortingly on the child's back, and her face was smitten with concern and understanding. "Ssssshhhh . . . there, there, my brave one." She knelt and held him back from her so she could look at him as she spoke. She lifted her eyebrows at him and smiled faintly. "You believe Curufinwë has an _enemy_?" she finished, deliberately correcting him.

Nodding, "At the forge." Finarfin took another deep breath. He began again, slowly. "I don't have a sword, or else I'd get rid of it myself, but _Mamil_ won't let me have one. So I," he looked at her with eyes so filled with hope and trust, "I would that you would go to him, my lady, and speak with him." And before she could respond, "He would listen to you, for I think his wrath for you is weaker than it is for me, and you are so strong that he can never hurt you."

Nerdanel felt a tightening in her chest. Never hurt her? Couldn't he, though? "Oh, Finarfin! He has not wrath for you!"

She was met only by his despairing, disbelieving face. Then she hugged him to her fiercely as he wrapped his little arms about her neck.

* * *

"Where – are – they?" His voice was eerily calm. "I know you have taken them."

He had her cornered in her father's forge, and already, heads were turning in their direction to see whence the disturbance came.

But Nerdanel was brave and remained composed in the face of his fury. "I know not of what you speak, my lord."

He slammed his hand down onto a wooden table, cracking its surface and sending a shudder all the way down into the legs. All around them, the smiths and workers immediately fell silent and gaped uncomfortably, shifting their feet. But the forge-maiden barely flinched.

"Do not play games with me, Nerdanel!"

"My lord, forgive me; I do not think – "

He did not wait for her to finish before he reached out toward the oaken chest. Somehow, he had guessed it. But Nerdanel nimbly kicked the trunk away and snatched out its contents, holding them against her. To the observers, it looked simply like a lumpy ball of green velvet, but Nerdanel felt the weight of the two heavy, glass globes in her arms. She suddenly felt very foolish. What had she been thinking, stealing them from him like that?

"Give them to me," he said again, in a low, threatening tone.

"No, Curufinwë. Not until you have gone home and rested."

"I will not be dictated to by you, forge-maiden!"

"Then do it for yourself! Or if not for yourself, for your brothers!" she cried.

"My brothers?" he asked, visibly confused but still angered.

"Your brother Finarfin!" Though her mind told her not to yell, her voice rose against her will. "He came to me today, and he begged me to help you! He thinks you are in danger, and he's too afraid of you to say so!"

Curufinwë looked less angry and more exasperated. "What can he understand? He's never felt the desire to create or perhaps he could identify. You should know that, at least, Nerdanel. He's only a child and not even a full Noldo, at that."

If her hands had been free, she would have reached out and struck him. "Listen to yourself! Listen to how you speak of your own brother!"

He was wrathful again. "That is none of your concern! Now give me back my possessions!"

"Why, _Feanáro_, why? Why are you so cruel to them? Can't you see that they love you? Why are you so cruel to those who love you most? They are children, they are your little brothers, and they only want to love you!" She stopped abruptly, furrowing her eyebrows painfully.

Her words did not have the desired effect. His face, which once had been twisted in rage, smoothed out and he bent over her, now seeming perilous and tall beyond measure. His dark tresses fell into his face and brushed her shoulders. His clear eyes prodded her soul like daggers, searching for a weak spot. All within sight of the argument held their breath and dared not move.

Only she could hear him whisper, "Never – do not _ever_ – call me by mother's name."

Tears stung her eyes, but she did not allow them access. She swallowed and breathed; closed her eyes momentarily, hardened her resolve. With all the courage and defiance she had left in her, she bored right back into him, rising slightly on toes to meet his challenge.

Though she could not keep the emotional tremor from her voice when she spoke, "Go – home - _ Curufinwë_."

For a long minute they were the only people in Arda as their two, stubborn and willful souls came to conflict.

Then something extraordinary happened.

Fëanor stepped back, haltingly, and his face seemed to melt from stone back into flesh. He looked conflictingly at her, eyebrows slightly furrowed. He took a few more steps back and stood, looking at her thoughtfully. He looked suddenly tired, as if all the weight of the past months were finally catching up to him. He seemed to hesitate, perplexed. She puffed out, like a proud bird, trying to look strong for him and intimidating. Then, without a word, he turned abruptly and strode away.

* * *

He slept straight for two days. Then for nearly a month, he took rest with his royal family in Mindon Eldaliéva. Finwë was most pleased, and of course word got back to him that Nerdanel was instrumental in his son's healing, though he knew not exactly how. During this time, Fëanor did not leave his house.

One evening, a maidservant delivered a letter to the king's eldest. Fëanor set his book aside and handed his quill to Fingolfin. He took the small scroll and turned it over and over in his hand.

"Open it," Fingolfin urged.

Finarfin, standing out among his brothers like a sunflower in a field of dark wildflowers, looked at Fëanor eagerly. He peered from behind Fingolfin, where he had been attentively observing the youth's writing lesson.

Fëanor walked the length of the room and held the letter out into the tree-light. Telperion made the ink shimmer a silvery blue. He unrolled the scroll, and a square piece of white cloth fell out. Retrieving it from the marble floor, he gazed at it scrutinizingly. Large, clumsy stitches painted a woodland scene of trees, flowers, and forest creatures. He read the letter intently:

_My dear Lord Curufinwë,_

_ I hope you are doing well and would have you know that your round stones are in the safekeeping of my excellent father. You shall receive them back as soon as you ask for them._

_ As for myself, I have respectfully noted your advice and taken to my sewing needle, though I'm afraid I have no skill for it. Even so, I would that you would have my first good attempt. Please accept my humble gift. When you look on it, think kindly of me._

_ By the Valar and the One,_

_Lady Nerdanel_

* * *

Shortly after, Mahtan the Smith's daughter received a letter and an object wrapped in silver silk and tied with a red ribbon. They were born by the King's messenger. The message read:

_My Lady,_

_ Enclosed is a silver and royal blue-woven belt, the work of my own mother. As you can see, she loved as I do beyond all else the works of her hands: only her dexterity was in sewing, and weaving, and things of the cloth, and not the forge. This I have treasured for a long time. I give it to you. Wear it and keep it well._

_ As for you, my dear forge-maiden, I advise you to leave off from spinning and sewing. You are really much better with the hammer and anvil._

Nerdanel cradled the letter like an infant, and fingered the fine belt round her waste. She reread the message several times, almost feeling she was mistaken. But it was the same with each reading. And each time, at the end, the message was signed: _ Feanáro_.


End file.
